


take me with you

by ironskies



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Gen, POV Scott, Unhappy Ending, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-16
Updated: 2017-04-16
Packaged: 2018-10-19 02:26:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10630233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironskies/pseuds/ironskies
Summary: It started with them. It would end with them, too.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Because Jeff Davis said he wanted to end Teen Wolf with a scene between Scott and Stiles, and I am a masochist.

So far, Plan B _sucks_. The hunters don’t care what he has to say— why would they? You don’t reason with the pest you’re trying to exterminate. But he has to keep them here, just a little longer, until Stiles can find the wolfsbane and get out. Of course, there’s no guarantee that it’s even _there_ , but there’s a bullet in Malia’s thigh and they’re running out of moves. Plan A was even worse. 

So he keeps talking. Tells them about the people they’ve protected, the good they’ve done in Beacon Hills. Anything he can say to convince them not to kill his pack. This is supposed to be neutral territory. Scott pretends not to notice how close their hands are to their weapons. Weapons that are laced with the most virulent wolfsbane Scott’s ever seen. He’s not sure he would win if it came to a fight.

His phone is heavy in his back pocket, but it doesn’t buzz. Stiles should be out by now. He should have already given him the all clear to end this stupid parlay, but there’s nothing.

Then, someone kicks the door open.

A fourth hunter marches in, fist tight in Stiles’ hoodie as he shoves him toward the rest of the hunters. There’s blood dripping from his nose and Scott has seen the tightness in his jaw enough to know that he’s _terrified._

“Found something of yours,” says the hunter to Scott. His grins like he’s just captured Scott’s king, because he has. 

Scott tastes blood in his mouth. He runs his tongue over the sharp points of his teeth as his claws elongate. 

“So much for peace,” says their leader, and he sounds downright _pleased_ as he twirls the knife in his hand.

“What you want isn’t peace,” Scott spits, “It’s genocide.”

“You say that like there’s a difference.”

Scott says nothing. If he can signal Stiles, they might be able to run for it. They’ll just have to hope the people shooting at them don’t get lucky, since he doubts Stiles ended up with any wolfsbane for an antidote. It’s a long shot, but they’ve faced worse odds.

“Fine,” says the hunter, and Scott swears he sounds bored. With the flick of a wrist, his men draw their guns. “Then there are two ways this can go. I kill your friend,” he says, pulling Stiles closer to him, “and then I kill you. Or, I kill you first, and him second. Your choice.”

“I think I’d like to see what’s behind door number three,” Stiles challenges. Scott doesn’t miss the tremor in his hands. “FYI, you’d make a terrible game show host.” The hunter sighs.

There’s a flash of silver, and he presses his knife against Stiles’ throat. Scott wishes he couldn’t hear the way Stiles’ breathing picks up or the way his heart thrashes against his ribs. He wishes he couldn’t smell the blood when the hunter presses a little too hard. 

“My leverage, my terms.” The hunter looks to Scott. “So what’ll it be?”

“Okay,” Scott says, retracting his claws and raising his hands in the air. “Okay.” He can still save this. One of them can walk out of here. “Let him go, and you can have me.”

Stiles struggles as much as the hunter’s grip will allow, and the knife cuts a little deeper. “Scott, don’t you dare—”

“You don’t want him anyway,” Scott continues, “He’s human.”

“Scott!”

“Stiles,” Scott pleads, tears threatening to spill over. “Let me do this.”

The leader cocks his head to the side. “What makes you think this is a negotiation?”

Scott looks to Stiles, hoping he’ll have a Plan C, but sees the same desperate question reflected back at him. 

Which means Scott is watching when it happens.

The hunter cuts Stiles’ throat with disturbing expertise. Blood sprays from the grotesque red smirk on his neck and onto the concrete. The knife clatters to the floor. Stiles follows with a sickening thud. Before Scott can so much as move, there’s gunfire and white-hot pain blossoming across his chest. He collapses, and in the haze of his rapidly blurring vision, he sees the hunters leave. Their job is done.

Scott can feel the poison spreading. He pulls himself forward toward the horrifying, wet noises, nails tearing against the concrete. Blood is pooling around Stiles’ head, spurting between his fingers as he clutches at his neck. His mouth moves like he’s trying to talk. Stiles’ hands fall away as Scott presses his own against the wound. He takes as much pain as he can, but it’s too much.

“Stiles,” Scott gasps, finding his voice. Stiles wraps his hand, slick with blood, around Scott’s wrist. He chokes, and red spills from the corners of his mouth.

Whatever words Scott hoped to say die on his lips. He meets Stiles’ clouded eyes, and the futility of his desperate attempt to stem the blood flow hangs heavy in the air between them. 

He doesn’t need Lydia to know that Stiles is going to die here. 

_He can’t do this again._

Scott can feel his body trying and failing to heal around the bullets lodged in his chest. His veins sing with the familiar burn of wolfsbane and he can’t help but feel _relief_. 

“It’s okay,” he breathes. “It’s okay.” The lie comes easily, and Scott tries not to think about last time. There are tears mixing with the blood on Stiles’ face. Stiles tries to talk again, but all that comes out is something raw and guttural that might be his name.

“Don’t talk. Please—” he chokes. Stiles’ nails cut crescents into his arm. Scott tries to think of something else, anything besides the empty warehouse or the poison creeping closer and closer to his heart. 

Or that he’s watching his best friend bleed out and there’s nothing he can do about it. 

“Remember when we met?” A shaky nod. “You peed all over my sandcastle.” He laughs, and it hurts, and there’s black mixing with the blood on the floor. It’s getting harder to hold himself up. “I’m glad you did.” A blink. Stiles’ heartbeat has slowed to a crawl. He's drowning in his own blood. The grip on Scott’s hand tightens momentarily, then goes slack. 

“Stiles?” _Don’t you dare._ “Stiles!” 

His heart is still beating, pushing more blood out of his body than Scott thinks he could possibly have left. Unconscious, not dead. 

Yet.

Scott collapses into a swirl of red and black. He remembers the motel, how Stiles had been right after all. They’d always done everything together. He wonders who’ll find them. He hopes his pack isn’t as doomed as this town. 

He thinks about his mom. 

Stiles goes first. Scott feels the rattle of his last breath like it’s his own. It’s worse than losing a limb.

A scream, then nothing.


End file.
